By the way, I had almost forgotten to record that the twins were christened down at the Rectory yesterday afternoon. There was a difficulty about their second name that threatened to disrupt Martha’s plans.
Timothy, who has been strangely mild and unassertive of late, crossing Martha in nothing, refused to lend the honoured name of Saunders to what he persists in calling “the aliens.” Martha argued, but to no purpose; his name, he said, was his own; if he had shared it with her, she had no right to peddle it outside the family.
This, even the Rector was obliged to agree was just. Then an inspiration seized Martha. If not Saunders, why not Corkle? The late Corkle could raise no objection, and it would be a sort of belated compliment, and at the same time a delicate way of keeping his name in the ears of his successor!
13. Victoria was not ill; Martha is, however, beginning to look fagged; ten maternal days are leaving marks I do not like to see; the wholesome rosy cheeks look dark and veiny. Also some of her cast-iron theories as to the management of infants (which, by the way, she has never attempted to practise upon mine) are disintegrating like a paper bag that has fallen into a water barrel, until only a semblance remains.
Martha’s chief local aversion is a Polish family named Potowski who, unknown to the neighbourhood, unfortunately, leased the land adjoining us on the north, a couple of years ago. Against these people, sellers of blue milk, and as she expresses it, “Sabbath-hoed vegetables,” more than suspected of being Hebrews, she set her face and has full cause, for scarcely a day passes but one of the ten Potowski children overflow into our chicken farm and seldom retreat empty-handed, anything being acceptable at home, from an egg to a fistful of oats or an armful of hay.
So what was my surprise this afternoon to see Albert and Victoria crawl unchidden across the grass plot between the rear porch and dividing fence, and exchange much unintelligible gossip with a group of young Potowskis on the other side, while the new Martha sat under the bell pear tree fashioning some small creeping aprons with fingers that trembled strangely, too worn out either to chide or follow.
The new Martha, in contrast to the old, was rather dishevelled; no collar and brooch topped her tightly buttoned blue and white calico bodice; the parting in her brown hair was decidedly on the bias, and not only did the hair itself lack the usual polish, but suggested that coal ashes and not brushing had been its portion that day. While the tasty cap, the crowning glory of the mature British matron, of and below, a certain class, was altogether lacking.
“Yes, Mrs. Evan,” she said, with a sigh, as she saw me glance at the twins clinging frantically to the fence through which they were poking grass and leaves, “the young need young company, and it can do no harm for them to prattle with the fence between, and though the people yonder are no better than gypsies, their lingo goes for naught, for Albert and Victoria can only make out English words.
“Do they understand? Most surely do they, Mrs. Evan; they know their names, and come crawling up quick when they see me fixing their bread and milk, bless their hearts!”
Yet I could not be deceived; Martha’s tones were those of duty oft rehearsed rather than affection. I’ve seen her, days gone by, cuddle and kiss my babies until the rose in her Sunday cap threatened to drop its petals with trembling; but if she ever kissed the twins, it must have been always in private.